Childbirth Class and Sweaty Boobs=Bully

Trinity and I started our 7 week childbirth class last evening.  The class meets each week for 2 1/2 hours and focuses on Lamaze breathing, information on the 3rd trimester, childbirth, medical intervention, breastfeeding and infant care.  

Last night's class lasted almost 3 hours and I think my husband nearly died.

My first clue when he leaned over to me after one hour and said "this is just an hour class, right?"

Um, no.

I was excited to head to a class that required me to bring a pillow.

T and the other dads participated in a "demonstration" of the weight that a pregnant woman carries.

T is in yellow, clearly looking upwards for some sweet salvation from this torture.

They held a blanket taut to represent the pelvic floor and she dropped in weighted bags of rice to represent the placenta, extra blood volume,etc.

T noted that it was "heavy."

Yes, heavy, Trinity.

Only that rice didn't kick the tar out of your insides.

So you don't get it.

Our class ran over due to our breathing and relaxation exercises.  

I got to sit on that giant green birthing ball as it was the biggest size and I was taller than all of the other mothers by at least 6 inches.

High five for Giantess status.

T rubbed my back as I did breathing very similar to what I do in yoga.

I learned my husband gives a great back rub.

He would not have initiated this, but the other menfolk were doing it, and the teacher encouraged him to do so.

I think I will be enjoying this class more than him, since it was so cold in there and I got to relax.

This brings me to the other part of my post title, the sweaty boobs=bully part.

It's really hot in Indiana.

I'm not liking it.  I am gaining weight, my limbs are swelling slightly, and I am hot.  I'm sweating in places that I didn't know existed.

It's all making me rather cranky, really.

My family let me know this past weekend that my discomfort is causing me to be mean.

I am picking on everyone, making little digs and overall making my immediate family feel like worthless dirtbags.

My brother engaged me in a  little Come to Jesus talk last night about my attitude.  I claimed I wasn't unkind in the least.  He said that I had reverted back to Junior High Betsy.

Ouch.

No one, and I mean, no one, needs to be subjected to that era again.

I am vowing to be kinder to my family.

I must remind myself that although I am sweating profusely when I leave the house, I am currently not working, thus my days are filled with naps, yoga and watching episodes of The Closer.

I have little to be irritated about.  

For anyone who was concerned, my husband has not been subjected to my ire.

I am still nice to him.

No divorce in sight.